Feed a Cold?
by JC4ever
Summary: Jack gets the flu and needs round the clock care :)


**Just a fun little story about the cold and flu season. The standard disclaimer applies-I don't own them, just borrowing them. Enjoy!**

**Feed a Cold?**

Jack McCoy rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Cold in here," he muttered as he poured himself another cup of coffee and yanked on a sweater. What he really wanted was a drink, but he needed to be sharp to finish the brief he was working on. The office was dark, quiet. Patricia, his secretary, had left for the day. His assistant, Claire, had gone out to dinner with some of her girlfriends from law school. He missed her tonight, though he had encouraged her to go out and have a good time. Taking a gulp of bitter, overheated coffee, he doggedly pushed on with his task. 

It was well past midnight when Claire stumbled out of a cab and into her apartment. She was giggly and half-drunk, hoping that she would find her lover in her bed. But the only animal to greet her was her cat, Ashes. "Damn," she swore softly. Sleepiness overtook her as she stripped off her clothes and crawled into bed. Tomorrow night, she promised herself as she drifted off. 

There was a fresh layer of snow covering the street and Claire's car in the morning. She scowled out her living room window as she swallowed a few aspirin. Why did I drink so much? she murmured as she threw on her coat and grabbed her briefcase. 

Jack was already at his desk, as usual. But there were dark circles under his eyes and his voice was scratchy when he told her good morning. "Did you have a good time?" he added as she took a seat in the chair opposite his desk.

"A little too good," she winced as she sipped from her Starbucks cup. 

His eyes crinkled, "Serves you right, for partying on a weeknight."

She managed a grin; "The night would have been better if I'd found a certain EADA in my bed." 

"He was at the office, **_working_**," Jack said pointedly. "Besides, far be it for me to take advantage of a woman under the influence."

She made a face at him, and changed the subject. "So, where are we on the Montgomery homicide?"

"Nowhere," Jack replied glumly. "Adam is insisting we deal."

"Just how generous are we supposed to be? He killed two people, after all," her tone was indignant.

"Man one, sentence to serve concurrently," Jack said dourly. "Look, the case is weak. The cops couldn't come up with the evidence. I have to agree with Adam on this one."

"So we deal," she muttered. "What about the Daniels severance motion?"

"We meet with Judge Bone at three o'clock," he glanced at his calendar. "How's your day?"

"I have pretrial motions to write for McAttee, Jones and Lloyd," she replied, flipping through the files. "I thought I'd spend the morning in the library. Then I have the arraignment on the rape-robbery at two, and we have that conference with Danielle Melnick at five."

"She shopping for a deal?" Jack mused.

Claire said dourly, "No, I think she's hoping we won't sever the Martin-Schmitz case."

"Well, that's a case that begs to be severed," he remarked.

"I agree, otherwise we set ourselves up with too much reasonable doubt for a jury," she agreed. "You free for lunch?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "Your place or mine?"

"I was thinking more in terms of burgers and fries in the office," she smirked.

"Damn," he said, his tone taking the sting out of the word. "I was hoping…"

"I **_know_** what you were hoping for," Claire said grinning. "Don't worry, we have the whole weekend."

"If you change your mind," he dangled the thought.

"See you at one, right here," she rose to leave.

The morning seemed to drag by as Jack met with Adam, put the finishing touches on the Daniels motion, and arranged his calendar for the next week. He was still chilled, and left his suit coat on the entire morning. His throat hurt more by the hour, and his head hurt. Being the tough Jack McCoy, he tried to ignore the symptoms.

Even Claire realized something was amiss as they ate lunch, "What's the matter, not hungry?"

"Not really," he said, taking a swig of cola. He winced as the drink went down his throat.

She got up and moved around his desk. Upon closer inspection, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes seemed duller. She laid a hand on his forehead. "Jack, you're burning up!"

He batted her hand away impatiently, "Nah, it's cold in here."

"I hate to tell you, but the thermostat is set at 70 degrees," she informed him, hands on hips. "You're sick."

"It's taken you this long to figure that out?" he tried to tease her.

"Jack, you should be home in bed," she scolded.

"Hey, I offered," he began.

"No, no. In bed **_sleeping_**," Claire insisted.

"Claire, I'm fine, really," Jack assured her.

"You lie," she wasn't buying it. "Influenza is running rampant through the office, you know that. Did you get a flu shot?"

"Too busy," he shook his head. "Did you?" he challenged.

"Yeah, I did," she replied. 

"I just feel a little achy. But I have the weekend off, I'll be better by Monday," he said firmly.

She fished a bottle of Tylenol out of his desk, shook two out, and handed him his soda. "Take this."

Seeing the obstinate look in her eyes, he decided he'd rather comply than fight with her. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Take two more by five o'clock," she instructed, turning to leave for the courthouse.

Six o'clock found them in the waiting room of an immediate care clinic near Hogan Place. There were several wailing children, as well as about a dozen exec-types. All were either coughing or sniffling, a few looked distinctly nauseous. 

Jack looked irritably at his assistant, "I didn't agree to this," he rasped.

Claire was adamant, "The flu medicine will only help if you get it in the first 24-36 hours after symptoms appear."

"Where did you hear that?" he asked dourly.

"I researched it on Web MD this afternoon," she replied. "Stop acting like I'm dragging you through broken glass."

"All I want to do is go home, crawl under the covers with a few shots of whiskey, and sleep until Monday," he griped.

"Whiskey is the last thing you need," she scolded. "Lots of rest, tea, chicken soup, jello…and rimantadine."

"Riman...what?" Jack frowned.

"It's an approved anti-viral medication for those idiots who are 'too busy' to get a flu shot," she explained. 

"Oh," he ran out of arguments and leaned his head back.

Just as Claire predicted, the doctor prescribed the anti-viral medication. There was a wait at the pharmacy, so Claire drove Jack to his apartment, and then went to her place to feed the cat and pack a bag for herself. She rummaged through her medicine cabinet and found a tympanic thermometer, sure Jack never owned one. That done, she left Ashes with her neighbor, with a supply of cat food and kitty litter. She stopped at the pharmacy to pick up the prescription and then it was back to Jack's. 

He slumped in the recliner in the living room, glass of scotch in his hand. 

"I'll take that," she announced, tossing her duffle bag on the floor.

"Bully," he grumbled.

"That's right, so get used to it," she grinned. "Take this," she handed him his medication with a large glass of water.

"I want my drink back," he looked up at her. 

Ignoring him, she went into the bathroom and turned on the tub tap. She opened the tiny bottles of eucalyptus, menthol and mint oils that she'd found in the holistic health section of the pharmacy, and carefully poured a few drops of each under the steaming water. She moved into the bedroom and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, then pulled the rumpled sheets off the bed. Finding fresh ones in the linen closet, she put them on the bed.

Jack was half-dozing in the chair, and she shook him lightly. "Hey, I've drawn a bath for you."

"Good, maybe it will warm me up," he sighed, shivering as they moved into the bathroom.

"Your fever is probably climbing," she worried, digging the thermometer out of her bag. At the beep she read aloud, "102.9! Jack, maybe we should cool that water down."

"Hell, no!" he stripped his clothes off and sank into the tub. When he noticed the scent of the oils he looked alarmed, "You didn't put any of your girlie bath oil in here, did you?"

She collapsed on the closed commode, laughing. "No, it's just stuff to clear your chest. A holistic remedy."

He regarded her with suspicion, "You're sure?"

She threw a washcloth at him, "Soak in this while I make you some tea or something."

By the time he was out of the tub and dried off, Claire had heated water for tea and instant broth. She took a sip of the broth to check the temperature and frowned, "Ick," she muttered. "I could do better myself."

Jack was pulling on a sweatshirt as he came into the kitchen.

"Better?" she asked.

"Warmer," he nodded, taking the tea from her and sitting down at the table. "What's that?" he gestured towards the bowl on the counter.

"Instant chicken broth from your cupboard, but leave it alone-it's vile," she informed him.

"As long as it's warm," he gulped the tea, and then began on the soup.

"How can you stomach that?" she shuddered as she ate the calzone she'd picked up.

"It's warm, and it doesn't hurt going down," he countered.

"You want some of this? It's huge," she offered him half of her dinner.

"Nope, I'm fine," he said. "Babe, you really don't have to stay. I don't want you to get this crap."

"Hey, I had the flu shot remember?" she grinned, getting up and pressing a kiss on his forehead. "You're still hot," she worried.

He rolled his eyes, "It's the tea, I'm sure. At least let me sleep on the couch."

"No, you need the rest, so you get the bed. I'll be fine," she insisted.

"Not the kind of weekend I had in mind," he replied glumly.

"I know," she grinned. "What would you do if I **_did_** go home?"

"Drown myself in scotch and pass out till Monday," he chuckled.

"That's why I'm not going home," she said wryly, smacking the back of his head lightly as she got up to put their dishes in the sink. 

They passed the evening lying on the couch, watching some dumb movie. Long before eleven, they were both yawning. Jack crawled into bed, bone-weary, while Claire took a shower.

He lay in bed, listening to the water running, and wishing he felt like going in and joining her. He closed his eyes and imagined the water sluicing off her body, turning her dark hair into a shiny sheet of silk. God, when was the last time they'd made love? Last Friday, a whole week ago. The weekend had started well, until they'd gotten into a fight over the death penalty case Jack was prosecuting. Their blissful Saturday had dissolved into a shouting match, so Jack jumped on his bike and took off. The thing that etched his gut most was that maybe, deep down, she had touched a nerve. He'd never been with a woman before who'd suited him so well, and yet drove him nuts with her belief system. 

He turned over and punched the pillow. Claire Kincaid was not the type to follow him blindly, to let her feelings get in the way of her judgment. The case with Diana Hawthorne proved that. He winced as he remembered all the things that had come out, and how hurt Claire had been by them. She'd forgiven him, he was sure, but a nagging feeling persisted that he was on thin ice. Why should he care? Because you love her, you schmuck, was his last thought as he drifted off to sleep.

She woke with a start, momentarily disoriented. In the dim light from the kitchen, she realized she was asleep on Jack's couch. Struggling to a sitting position, she squinted at the clock: two seventeen AM. She got to her feet stiffly and made her way down the hall to the bedroom. Jack was asleep, but restless. Noiselessly, she leaned over to touch the thermometer to his ear: 101.6. Not great but she'd take it. Shaking his shoulder gently, she held out the ibuprofen and a glass of cold apple juice.

"Wha-what?" he was clearly exhausted.

"Take this, Sweetheart, and drink the juice," she urged in a whisper.

"More drugs," Jack mumbled as he sat up, and then made a face. "I hate apple juice."

"I know," she murmured, rubbing a hand over his warm forehead. "I'll get you something different in the morning."

"Sorry," he was more alert. "You're taking care of me, and I'm being a bastard."

"I can take it," she grinned, kissing his cheek. "How're you feeling?"

"Like shit," he groaned, sinking back against the pillows. "You don't have to stay, you know."

"I know, but it makes **_me_** feel better," she drew the covers up around him. "Go back to sleep." She blew him a kiss from the doorway.

But he was already asleep. 

She stopped at the bathroom, and then crawled back under the blankets on the couch. She slept soundly until seven, when she heard Jack coughing. Immediately, she was up to check on him. He was in the kitchen getting a drink of water. 

In spite of having some sleep, his eyes were hollow with deep circles under them. His cheeks were flushed telling Claire that he probably still had a whopping fever. He shivered even in the sweats he wore.

She gave him his medication, and asked what he wanted for breakfast.

"Nothin'" he sighed. "Just something hot to drink."

"Nope, it's cold for you, your fever's still 102," Claire informed him. "Drink this juice and eat some toast, and I'll go get us some groceries," she added, pulling on her coat.

She browsed the corner market, loading her cart with juices, fresh fruit and vegetables. Claire had a vague memory of her grandmother giving her hot lemonade sweetened with honey, when she had a cold. She added those things to the cart as well.

 The owner's wife, Mrs. Gianelli was a plump, wizened woman of about seventy. She made conversation with Claire as she looked over the canned soup selection.

"Where is Jack today? Surely he not working!" The woman's accent was pure Sicilian, even after fifty years in America.

"No, Mrs. Gianelli, he's home sick with the flu. I'm trying to get him to eat healthy, but you know how he is," Claire rolled her eyes.

"_Si_, _mia_, of course I do! These men, they think they are tough, then poof! They get sick, they act like babies," the older woman nodded sagely. "Even my Tony," she gestured towards her husband.

"Angela, what you say? _Cara __mia_, ignore my wife," Mr. Gianelli said.

Angela waved a hand, as if to dismiss him, "After fifty years, just the same, babies," she snorted. "If you want your man to feel better, I have just the thing." She whipped out a pad of paper and began scribbling furiously. "That soup in a can-no good. I make homemade chicken soup for Tony and all my bambinos for years-the best medicine."

Claire faltered, "Thank you but I don't know if I'm that good a cook."

"_Bella_, you will do fine. See, you just need this and this…Oh, and Tony, go pick her a good fat hen for the stock…" Mrs. Gianelli loaded the cart with fresh vegetables, noodles, garlic and herbs. "Now, you wrap these in cheesecloth, let them cook with the soup, then strain them…do you have a strainer?"

"Yeah, I think so," Claire felt almost helpless as the woman prattled on, half in Italian. 

"Good, now here is our number. You have questions, you call," she handed the recipe to Claire.

Claire was surprised to see that the recipe was written in clear, beautiful script. "Thank you so much. I hope I can do it justice."

Tony beamed, "You'll see, very good. My Angela," he blew a kiss, "The best cook in all of Sicily!"

"Oh, go on old man," Angela blushed as Tony rang up Claire's purchases. "You good for Jack, you know. He's been alone a long time."

"Now, I know about his other women," Claire laughed. "That's no secret."

Angela snorted, "No good, any of them! He no love them. But you, _cara_, he loves you. His face when he talks about you…like my Tony. You see-you marry him, have bambinos. Never too late." She patted her husband's arm.

"Maybe," Claire was noncommittal.

"Pietro will carry your groceries, Miss Claire," Tony nodded at his sixteen-year-old grandson.

"Oh, I think I can get them," she protested.

"No, we insist," Angela said.

Pietro was shy and barely met Claire's eyes as they walked to Jack's apartment. Her attempts to engage him in conversation just made the boy blush. He held onto the groceries while she stopped at the bakery to pick up hot bagels and crusty bread.

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of a ball game on TV. Jack was sacked out on the couch, asleep. Once the groceries were placed on Jack's kitchen counter, she thanked Pietro warmly and gave him a generous tip.

Unexpectedly, he met her eyes and grinned widely as he stuffed the tip in his pocket, then bolted out the door. 

Where were you when I was sixteen? Claire mused to herself as she put away the perishables. She pulled out a bag of warm bagels and spread two with cream cheese and jam. She then poured large glasses of orange juice for Jack and herself, and put them on the coffee table next to him.

"Hey, sleepyhead, want a late breakfast?" she smoothed his hair back. 

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Jack sat up, bleary-eyed. 

She snuggled beside him and ate ravenously, "I am starved."

"I wish I were," he took a swig of juice and a few bites of his bagel. 

"Throat still hurt?" she asked solicitously.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"I brought you some lozenges," she got up to get them, but he pulled her back.

"Naw, I'm okay. What took you so long? I missed you," he sounded like a six-year-old.

Claire had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, "Well, I was at Gianelli's and you know how they are. They love to chat. They want you to get well soon."

"Nice people," he leaned back. "So what did you buy?"

"Lots of juices, fresh fruits, vegetables, tea, throat lozenges…some chicken for soup," she added.

"Oh. No Chinese or pizza?" his tone was mournful.

"No, not this time, buster," she laughed. "We're eating healthy this weekend."

"I'll be dead by Monday, so don't bother," he sighed.

Big babies, wasn't that what Angela said? Aloud she commented, "You don't look **_that_** sick."

"Probably not," but his tone was still gloomy. He got up and moved towards his desk. As he opened the briefcase, Claire made an impatient noise.

"You don't need to be working," she scolded.

"But it has to be done," he insisted, booting up the computer.

" Not right this minute," she tugged at his arm. "Go rest, I can help you with it a little later."

"All right," he threw up his hands. "You're the boss."

She grinned triumphantly. "I want that in writing."

"Such a lawyer," he chuckled, smacking her behind as he headed back to bed.

Claire spent the remainder of the morning trying to make chicken soup. The first part of the recipe was easy: cut up vegetables and put them in a big stockpot with the whole chicken, the cheesecloth bag of herbs, and water. She read the directions to let simmer for several hours. "Great," she muttered to herself. That done, she mixed up lemonade, put some in a mug with a bit of honey, and heated it in the microwave. Yummy, it was better than she remembered. Jack could have the next mug; this was hers. 

She went in to check on him, he was sound asleep. His fever was actually better too, so she left him undisturbed. She made a turkey sandwich and took a seat in front of the computer. Claire was aware of most of Jack's workload, so she could write briefs and do some research for him. The afternoon flew by, so much so that it was getting dark by the time Claire shut down the computer, and inhaled deeply. The soup at least **_smelled_** good. She glanced at the clock. More than time for Jack to take his medicine. 

He was still asleep, which worried her. Jack was such a light sleeper, and he never slept more than five or six hours a night. She checked his temperature: 102.1. "Damn," she muttered.

He woke to the beep of the thermometer, "What is it?"

"Still high," she answered. "Here's your medicine."

He gulped the pills, along with the glass of water she brought. "What smells so good?" he wondered.

"Um, an experiment," she said ruefully. "Are you hungry?"

"Just thirsty," he slumped against the pillows. "Damn, I'm old, Claire."

"We're not having that conversation today," she said wryly. "I'll bring you something warm to drink."

He took a sip of the hot lemonade, "This is good, what is it?"

"Hot lemonade with honey," she explained. "My grandma used to give to me when I was sick."

"My mom did that, too," Jack smiled. "Haven't had it for years, thank you."

"You're welcome," she took his hand. "Anything else I can get you?"

"Got anymore of that bath oil stuff? I'm all sweaty, maybe soaking in the tub would feel good," he wondered.

"But of course," Claire smoothed his hair. 

While Jack soaked in the tub, she changed the sweaty sheets on the bed. Next, she decided to brave the rest of the chicken soup recipe. Using a spatula and a big fork, she managed to get the chicken safely onto a platter. Next she put a colander over a big bowl and drained the stock. It was hot, and she managed to burn two fingers in the process. Doggedly, she cut the chicken from the bone, thus injuring three more fingers. "I hope you appreciate this, Jack," she muttered. She poured the stock back into the pot, and skimmed the fat. She then added part of the diced chicken, fresh chopped celery, onion, and carrots. The remainder of the chicken she put into the refrigerator. She added a little water to the stock, and let it simmer for the recommended time. She was exhausted by the time she added the noodles. 

Claire set out two big bowls, and heated the bread in the microwave. She tossed strawberries, grapes, melon chunks, orange sections and pineapple together to make a fruit cup. By the time she ladled the steaming soup into the bowls, Jack was out of the tub. His hands came round her waist from behind.

She giggled when he tickled her under her shirt. "You must be feeling better."

"Either that or I'm delirious from the fever," he laughed.  His hair was freshly washed and damp and he had changed into a Bulls sweatshirt and jeans. "Is this your experiment?"

"Mrs. Gianelli thought that homemade chicken soup was better than canned," she explained. 

"So you made this?" he was touched. "That's wonderful."

"Don't say that until you taste it," she warned.

Jack picked up a spoon and took a taste, "This is great!" he enthused.

Claire laughed, "Glad you like it, because there's enough here for a week."

The soup was delicious, and they both ate two bowls. She was glad she made the effort, and she made a mental note to thank Mrs. Gianelli the next time she saw her.

Once again, they passed the evening on the couch, Claire showing him what she'd accomplished on his trial prep and briefs. 

Jack never failed to be impressed with her intelligence as he read the briefs. He only had a few suggestions for improvements and they worked on those together. Claire fell asleep at ten, and by eleven o'clock, Jack was tired and his fever had climbed. He dosed himself with medicine and headed to bed. The sheets were clean and fresh, he noticed as he burrowed under the covers. 

Sunday, Jack insisted on working, but Claire put her foot down when he wanted to go the office. They barely avoided an argument. Jack acquiesced, on the condition that Claire get out of the apartment for a while. She took a long run to clear her head. When she returned, he had ordered Chinese for lunch.

She laughed, "What's this?"

"A peace offering," Jack pretended to be stern.

She leaned up to kiss him, "Offer accepted."

In spite of his protests to the contrary, Jack was still feeling pretty miserable. He slept the afternoon away.

Claire was irritated with the clutter of his apartment, so she decided to do something about it. At least she could improve the state of the living room and kitchen. Diligently, she dusted and vacuumed, put stray dirty dishes in the dishwasher, clothes in the washer, and replaced books on their shelves. The excess books she put in neat stacks next to his desk. The clutter of files was tidied, and she rescued a few half-dead plants. She watered them, trimmed off old foliage, and placed them on the wide windowsill. She opened the curtains to let the afternoon sun filter in. Pleased with her work, she sat down with a cup of tea and checked her messages. She sighed as she heard her mother's voice, "Claire, are you spending the weekend at Jack's again? I just don't know about you. You need to find someone your own age, someone you can marry and have children with. Aw, never mind. Call me when you get this message."

What was this with everyone wanting her to have a baby? First Ruthie Miller and that nanny case, then Mrs. Gianelli, and now her mother. "I'm just not ready yet," she muttered as she dialed her mother's number. 

After doing her daughterly duty, Claire continued to research and write motions. The television was on in the background, a program about forensics and solving cold cases. She became absorbed in the program, and set her paperwork aside. 

"And next, a brand new episode of Maternity Ward, here on TLC," the announcer informed.

Claire rolled her eyes and returned to her paperwork. But she found herself drawn into the story of a woman having her first baby, and not progressing in labor. The doctor decided to do a C-section. Claire abandoned the case files in favor of watching the birth. 

When Jack came into the living room, he noticed her absorption with the television program. Even he was captivated by the sound of the baby's first cry. "Wow, that was really something."

Claire jumped at the sound of his voice, "I didn't know you were up."

"Just a little bit ago," he replied, looking at her closely. He could almost swear she had tears in her eyes, and there was no mistaking her blissful expression. He suddenly felt his age. She deserved to be a mother, she really did. What was he doing with her, wrecking her chances at having a normal life? His own daughter was grown; he thought he was past having more children, or even wanting them. But one look at Claire's face, and he was about ready to change his mind. Maybe that was the source of their recent arguments. It all started with Ruthie's needling Claire about parenting. Then there was the death penalty case and…he realized she was talking to him.

"What do you want for dinner?" she was asking. 

"More of that chicken soup," he answered promptly.

"No pizza?" she teased, clearing her throat. 

"Hey, what happened to 'we're eating healthy this weekend'?" he laughed.

"Nothing," Claire smiled. "Maybe I can bake a couple apples."

"With ice cream?" he inquired hopefully.

"So much for healthy," she giggled, her reflective mood passing.

They worked together in the kitchen, arguing whether Jack should go to work on Monday. Claire handed him the doctor's instructions. "May return to work when without a fever for 24 hours," he read aloud. "So what?"

"So what?" She waved the thermometer at him, "100.9 is still a fever." 

Jack mumbled something under his breath, but couldn't think of a comeback.

"I win," she grinned as she joined him at the table. They ate leisurely, forgetting their disagreement. They worked companiably as they cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Claire cored and stuffed two apples with nuts, brown sugar, butter and oatmeal, topped them with cinnamon and nutmeg and put them in the oven to bake slowly. 

Jack searched the pay per view screen and picked a movie he thought they'd both like. Claire cuddled next to him on the couch as the movie began.

"Not afraid to catch the flu bug?" he teased.

"I'll take my chances," she brushed her lips to his. "Mmm."

"I've missed you this weekend," he murmured into her hair.

"I've been here all along," she grinned.

"You know what I mean," he pulled at one of her curls.

"Yeah, I've missed you too," her eyes twinkled. 

His hand moved under her shirt. "Want to risk it with a sick man?" Jack's fingers undid each button, found the clasp of her bra and opened it.

Claire sighed softly, "I'll risk it." 

Their hands were impatient now, discarding their clothes. She lay back on the couch, drawing Jack on top of her. She stroked his arousal, pleading with her eyes.

"What, no foreplay?" he gasped as she became more aggressive.

"Nuisance," she breathed, guiding his hand between her legs. 

His fingers found her moist crease and massaged the swollen pearl there, "you sure about that?" His mouth took possession of her breasts, and suckled her nipples with maddening slowness.

"Jack, Jack," she was moaning now, writhing beneath him.

"Is that a yes or a no?" he nibbled at her stomach now, running his tongue in her navel, speeding up the strokes of his fingers.

"You're…killing…me!" she half-sobbed as the first streamers of pleasure rippled through her.

"I'm the one who usually says that," he teased, grinding his hips into hers.

Her fingers dug into his butt, drawing him even closer, "That is mean. Give me what I want."

"Such a greedy little girl…aw, Claire…!" he groaned as her hand snaked around his erection and squeezed.

"Who's greedy?" she grinned.

"What do you want?' he put his hand over hers, stilling her caress for a moment.

"**_You_**, I want you. Inside me, loving me…" her voice trailed off. Before she could complete the thought, he was inside her, moving with delicious slowness. Her body responded immediately, her first orgasm seconds away.

"You're supposed to wait for me," Jack panted, his sweat dripping on Claire's face.

"I can't," she sobbed as wave after wave tumbled over her. "Been a whole week," she rasped.

"I know…oh, God!" he felt his climax building.

There were no more words as they crashed over the edge together. They took a long time to catch theirs breaths, when the oven timer startled them.

"Ready for dessert?" she grinned.

"I just **_had _**dessert," he grinned wolfishly.

"You had **_me_**, not dessert," Claire stroked his hair as he buried his head in her breasts.

"Who had who?" Jack chuckled.

"Good point," they laughed together. 

Finally, she got up, pulled on her shirt and rescued their apples.

Jack listened to the soft clinking sound as she put the clean dishes back in the cupboard. She hummed lightly under her breath, something he doubted she was even aware of as she worked. He looked around his apartment, appreciating the place as a home. Claire had diligently cleared a lot of the clutter, replaced books to the voluminous bookcase, dusted and vacuumed. Files were in orderly stacks on his desk. She'd stuck a few green plants in the window. The aroma of apples baking added to the homey scene.

When was the last time he felt like this? He closed his eyes. Too many years to count. Not during any other of his liaisons with assistants, and probably not even during his marriages. He had always been too busy, trying to climb the ladder, to ascend higher in his career. When he was a kid, before his dad had turned angry and bitter? Or maybe he'd never stopped long enough to be content. Yeah, that was the word, the feeling. Pure contentment. Jack realized another important thing this weekend: Claire had this amazing capacity to nurture.

 "Are they burnt?" he called out as he pulled his jeans back on. 

"A little brown, but not bad. Do you want ice cream with your apple?" she asked as he came up behind her.

"Hell, yes," he nuzzled his lips on her neck, and his hands circled her waist, causing her shirt to hitch to the tops of her thighs.

"Down, boy," she giggled. "You're supposed to be recuperating." She freed herself to scoop ice cream into two dishes with the steaming apples. She added an extra drizzle of caramel sauce for good measure.

As they ate their desserts, Jack commented, "I didn't know you were such a domestic goddess."

She howled with mirth, "I'm not!"

"Could have fooled me," he grinned.

"You didn't tell me you were looking for a Martha Stewart type," Claire set their now-empty bowls aside and put her bare feet in Jack's lap.

"I'm not, I like you just fine," he rubbed her thigh.

"Good, because come tomorrow, this domestic goddess is turning back into an ADA," she smirked. "Want a massage?" she asked.

"Your last act as a domestic goddess," he laughed, turning his back to her.

She massaged his shoulders, easing the soreness away. After a year and a half of being his lover, Claire felt she knew his body almost as well as her own. But as her hands kneaded his shoulder muscles, she found herself noticing how his hair swirled at the base of his neck, and the cowlicks above that. She fell into a reverie, imagining a little boy with the same thick hair, and the same cowlicks. He'd have laughing brown eyes and his father's thick hair…and chubby little arms that clung to her in an exuberant hug…She shook herself mentally. Now why would I be thinking that?

Jack noticed her silence and commented on it, "Where'd you go?"

"Hmm, just distracted for a minute," she apologized, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing a kiss on his shoulder.

"You're sure?" he scooted around to face her.

"Yeah," she said, stroking his cheek pensively. 

"Tell me about it," his tone was gentle.

She drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, "Just something Ruthie said the other day."

"Well, you'd have to narrow it down. Ruthie…" Jack began.

"…Has a big mouth," Claire joined in the end of his sentence, making them both grin. "Just something she said when we were out drinking."

"Oh," Jack said. "I think I know."

She raised an eyebrow at him, "You weren't there."

"She said the same thing in the office," he reminded her. "That you weren't a parent, so you couldn't understand."

Claire met his gaze squarely, "And if **_you_** recall, I said I wouldn't be anytime soon."

"But it's bothering you," he leaned close to her.

She averted her gaze, "not bothering me exactly."

"Oh, then I guess this isn't the time to ask you if you'd consider being barefoot and pregnant," he joked.

She didn't answer him-she couldn't. In that moment of clarity she realized she wouldn't mind at all.

"Claire, do you want to have a baby?" Jack blurted.

She looked up, startled. Her first impulse was to deny it, but the words stuck in her throat.

"You do, don't you." It was a statement, not a question.

Claire was appalled at the tears gathering in her eyes, "Maybe," she whispered.

His eyes were tender, "All you had to do was tell me."  

She batted the thought away, "Jack, I haven't even been thinking in those terms. I-I- like things the way they are."

"So do I," he touched her cheek. "But I've learned a lot about you this weekend, Claire Kincaid."

"Like what?" she was perplexed. 

"I see a cleaner apartment, for one thing," he grinned.

"Anyone can do that," she said wryly.

"But not everyone would stay the whole weekend, checking on me to see if I was all right, taking my temperature, and nagging me to drink lots of fluids," his grin faded as he took her hands and held them palms-up. "And it takes a nurturing person to make chicken soup from scratch, cutting and blistering her hands in the process." He bent to kiss each tender spot on her hands lightly. "I see these hands doing much more than typing a legal brief or lugging files to court. I can see you cuddling a baby and soothing bumps and bruises, changing diapers and helping with homework. And I guess it's took me till now to really see that part of you." 

The tears that filled her eyes spilled over, "Aw, Jack. I did those things because I **_love_** you."

"I love you so much, Claire," he brushed the tears from her eyes. His next admission was difficult. "I don't think I've felt so loved for a long time."

"I know," she whispered. "But I'm here, I'm not going anywhere." She crawled into his lap.

"Do you think our kids will mind having a father old enough to be their grandfather?" he mumbled.

"Why should they? I won't mind," she smiled against his lips.

"But if you were with someone younger…" he sighed.

"I can't see myself having a baby with anyone else but you," she assured him.

"A baby? What about more than one?" he inquired.

"One at a time, Jack," Claire laughed.

He lifted her in his arms and carried to the bedroom. As they spooned together under the covers Jack whispered, "You know, this flu bug isn't such a bad thing."

"I don't care how recovered you feel, you're not going to work tomorrow," she murmured.

" I wasn't thinking about work, I was thinking about babies and where they come from…" he turned her towards him and grinned suggestively.

"Are you talking about making one? Tonight?" her eyes were wide in disbelief.

"No," he assured her. "But would you be up for a practice session?"

"Sure," she smiled in the dark.

**_Happy April, everyone!_**

  
  



End file.
